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Show A LETTER WITH THE SHAMROCK (For the Irish World.) It's a letter from dear Ireland. Oh. what joy it brings to me! For it contains the little plant I long so much to see. All! There it is as fresh and sweet, As the balmy Irish breeze; In a bed of soft and dewy moss. Enfolded between the leaves. I know tho very place it grew. Where the Barrow runs so bold. Upon its green and verdant banks, 'Mid daisies white and gold. Sweet memories it always brings' Of places where I've been: And days of happiness untold. Where the shamrock grows so green. I see the rushing rivers. And the lofty mountains grand. And the peaceful, smiling valleys Of my own dear native land. Oh. no. I must not keep them, On this festival at least: For his children ever should be glad. On their clear Saint's glorious feast. M. G. |